


Speak Your Mind

by drowninginchamomiletea



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (rubs my little raccoon paws together) IT'S WITCHER TIME BABEY!, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, EMOTIONS YALL. EMOTIONS, Fix-It, Geralt is so weirdly OOC here but I tried to keep him close to character, Geraskier, Hoooh, I hope..., I'm really excited for this, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining Jaskier, Slow Burn, Very Confused Geralt, lowkey, shhh... ;-) I'm still here. I'll be back soon..., this ship has taken over my life, yes beta we live like men!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowninginchamomiletea/pseuds/drowninginchamomiletea
Summary: "Jaskier! Open the damn door, I'm sorry I yelled last night! I wanted to talk to you but I didn't have a clue what to say. Once you made it clear how much I hurt you, I—"Jaskier yanked the door open,fullynot in the mood for fucked-up pranks. He opened his mouth to start berating whoever it was, but froze when he saw Geralt himself standing in the hall, looking worse than Jaskier had ever seen him. His stony face was twisted with actualemotion,and what it was broke the bard down completely.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 154
Kudos: 543





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [No Filter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22283896) by [pukingflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukingflowers/pseuds/pukingflowers). 



> HOKAY!  
> This is inspired by pukingflowers' EXCELLENT fic No Filter. I thought it would be interesting to swap it around and put the curse on Geralt.  
> ENJOY!
> 
> [idk why I feel the need to mention this but the fic actually has appx half the number of reader comments than the comment count says, bc I generally reply to every comment so half the comments are my replies hahah]

It's been years.

Three. Four. Or one, or maybe seven. Or maybe it's only been months.

Verin, the town that Jaskier is in this evening. 

"Called in a witcher for that damned kobold, finally," said the barkeep gleefully as he wiped down the counters. "One of the best around, or so I hear!"

His friend, sat at the bar, took a long pull from his beer before setting it back down on the wooden surface with a heavy _clunk._

"Hell, Sarin, took you long enough." 

Sarin, the barkeep, huffed in annoyance.

"Yeah, Lears, I don't need your pickin' about it."

"So, what's its name?" Lears asked.

Jaskier cringed from his seat on the other end of the room as Sarin started talking again.

"Ah, it's that famous one, the Butcher of Bla—"

"You called _Geralt of Rivia?"_ Lears spluttered mid-drink.

Jaskier stilled, fingers on a tuning knob at the head of his lute.

Sarin shrugged.

"Seems that. What's your fuss with it?"

"I— I mean—" Sarin's friend stared incredulously at the barkeep, then leaned in, looking around as though to check for eavesdroppers. However, his 'whisper' was clearly audible from across the room. "Isn't that the one that... You know... Maimed that bard that was traveling with it? He ran off and couldn't play for weeks, I heard. And its witch chased him off too."

"Bah!" Sarin waved his hand dismissively. "Didn't I tell you to stop listening in on your wife's gossip, Lears? Honestly, the tall tales that come out of your mouth, sometimes I wonder if you should be at the bar or seeing the town mage."

"Don't look twice with that; you're the one intentionally bringing a witcher to town!"

"It'll be fine, Lears," Sarin said placidly as he finished wiping down the bar and the surfaces behind it. "It's the best around, it'll be in and out in a day."

Lears leaned back after draining his mug. 

"Well," he said, stretching and standing up, "don't ask me for help when you lose your latest entertainer. Till tomorrow, then." The man walked heavily to the door and exited the building.

Jaskier was silent and still, thinking about what he'd just heard. His first impulse was to march up to the bar and curse at the man behind it for deigning to refer to Ge— to witchers as _'it.'_ He was quickly rebuffed by a voice in his head; _Jaskier, you idiot, any man on the street could snap you in half. Learn to leave well enough alone._

He shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the gravelly grumble, but failed as always. 

"Oi, bard! I'll give y'a room for half price, but you gotta stay another three nights."

Jaskier looked up. The man, Sarin, had emerged from behind the bar and was now wiping down tables. 

"We, my friend, have a deal," he said, his trademark smile curling his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely beta reader to whom I owe the quality of this fic is **glythandra**!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This here's a Big Boi (tm). Enjoy! The story's off to a raring start, it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 12 Feb 2020: I did some snipping down on Toss A Coin— sorry, guys. AO3 staff has prodded at me before for using copyrighted lyrics too copiously, and I want to prevent that happening again. Thx luvs <3  
> Edit 30 Jan 2021: I got rid of the "[....]" where there are cut lyrics, bc like.... Disruptive to the flow of reading yo. I also tweaked a few words for the abbreviations to go across better.

The man Sarin seemed nice enough. Jaskier chatted lightly with him sometimes between performances, and the barkeep would occasionally give him a small plum from the tree outside, which was sagging with the weight of all the fruit it bore. 

"What say you about that witcher, Geralt of Rivia?" he asked on the second day of Jaskier's stay, during a lull in business. Jaskier actually _stuttered_ with the beginning of his response, shocking himself and amusing the Ger— the _voice_ in the back of his head.

"He's, he's, I uhhaven't heard much about him," he said, smoothly skating out of his shaky start. "I usually go to smaller towns; I don't meet many other bards on the road." He continued dramatically, "I am here so that all, regardless of location, may accept the gift of song. And throwing coins at a man while he dances."

Sarin snorted. 

"Yes, I owe you my business, dear minstrel."

Jaskier laughed, freely and fully. 

"Sarin," he chuckled, "get me a bit of bread, will you?" The bard dropped a couple of gold coins onto the bar. They bounced and clinked merrily, flashing and gleaming in the sunlight which was pouring in from the nearest window. Sarin swiped them up, still looking amused, and pulled a roll from the bread cabinet.

"I'm not sure, though," Jaskier said carefully, mouth full of bread. "I'd say his words hurt a lot more than his swords."

"You've met it? What—"

"Please don't call him _it,"_ Jaskier cut in. He couldn't have controlled it; something deep inside him pushed back violently against the pronoun.

Sarin raised his scruffy eyebrows.

"Alright..."

Jaskier took a breath to recover himself.

"Right. Yeah. I, er... Knew him. Years ago."

"And he... What? Swore at you to fuck off?"

Jaskier cringed. That was just a _little_ too close to what had actually happened for his liking.

"You could say that." He tore another bite from his bread. "He's not a bad person, though. I wouldn't be afraid of him if he threatened to kill me." He paused to swallow. "Actually, he has done that. Several times." 

"Sounds like you were good friends."

The thing inside Jaskier twisted, and his throat threatened to close up.

"Yeah." 

"And... Is it true, the whole thing about him slicing you to bits and sending a witch after you?"

Jaskier snorted loudly. 

"Absolutely not. No matter—" He cleared his throat when his voice hitched. "...what he said to me," he continued, more quietly, "I know he'd never actually hurt me. Physically." 

"And the fact we're having him here?" Sarin asked, tone rather gentle.

"...I don't know," the bard replied honestly.

"I'm keeping you here even if he walks right into you when he comes through that door, you know."

Jaskier laughed weakly.

"Yeah, I know."

"And I won't have you freezing mid-song, either, hear me?"

"Hear you."

"Aye, have an ale. People are gonna be droppin' by for a midday drink soon." Sarin poured Jaskier an ale and slid it over to the bard. "Please, son, don't give me any coin for this. You need it."

* * *

_"So next you're on the road,_

_and come upon a toad,_

_good sir, run along,_

_lest he do you wrong!"_

The tavern, filled with raucous laughter, threw coins in Jaskier's direction as he finished the impromptu tale of woe and amphibians. 

"Yes, thank you, thank you." He bowed profusely, grinning, and slung his instrument over his shoulder as he set out to collect his earnings from the floor. It had been an excellent night so far. Sarin had warmed up to him since their talk that morning, and it felt good to have a real connection. He hadn't had that for a while. During the afternoon lull, the barkeep had sent the bard outside to play with his children for some fresh air and sunlight. They really were lovely little things, cheery and bouncy and curious. He was forced to accept "misser jasker! misser jasker!" as his new name. 

Later in the evening, he sat with the butcher's eldest son, both laughing uproariously at the stories they were swapping. 

"You are a _fascinating_ man, Jaskier," the boy—Flenthe, he thought—said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. Jaskier stretched, waving at the barmaid for another ale.

"I won't deny having lived a fascinating life so far." He held his right fist close to his heart and gestured dramatically with his left arm, looking up into thin air as if he could see the stories he told. "I have seen the brightest sunny joys of love and the cold, deep swamps of heartbreak... The true heart-wrenching terror of facing a beast not of this realm, the awe of witnessing it slain at expert hands; the heroics of one man to save the many and the hard work of groups to soothe the few..." He dropped his hands and raised his fresh mug of ale to the grinning, crossed-armed boy.

"Sounds like a lot. Wonder you're still around to tell the tales."

"Oh, you don't know the _half_ of it! I don't think I told you about the time I throttled a pyop with my bare han—"

The door opened with a _bang._ Everyone present turned their faces to the source of the sound. Jaskier turned in his chair to investigate as well.

His blood ran icy. A tall, broad, scarred man strode in and approached the bar. Jaskier's mind was racing in terror and excitement and uncertainty and agonizing memor—

_"Oh, fun. White hair, big ol' loner, two very— very scary-looking swords... I know who you are..."_

He slammed his fist down on his knee, jolting the thoughts back to whence they had come. The man who was here, in this room, speaking, discussing terms, asking questions, forming mental plans... It wasn't. No. It wasn't the witcher, Geralt of Rivia. Jaskier had to convince himself that the man was gone, never to cross his path again. But the posture, the voice, it was all so familiar.

He suddenly found that he was slinging his lute in its case over his shoulder and beginning to trace a desperate path along the back wall and towards the stairs. He was being a fool and he knew it; he wouldn't be able to reach and climb the stairs without the man spotti— 

His gaze locked with Sarin's. The older man raised his eyebrows. _No running away. You agreed._ With some amount of guilt, Jaskier slumped and nodded. He slunk back to the boxes near the door and set down his lute's case.

 _Come on, Jaskier._ He stood up straight and shook off some of the crushing anxiety. He pulled up a trademarked Jaskier grin and took a gulp from someone's ale on the nearest table. He then leapt up onto a chair and did what he was there to do, what he was _anywhere_ to do.

"What ho, my friends, what ho! The time is nigh for merriment, no?" he crowed to the tavern as a whole. The patrons collectively broke back into conversation and a few cheered for him to play another song. "Let's go on an adventure!"

_"In the mountains far north,_

_A storm brews black_

_Dark magic called forth_

_Better watch your back_

_The beasts of yore_

_They came and they tore_

_Heroes’ packs and their tents!_

_The men died to explore._

_Dark mages, they say!_

_Black skies shade the day._

_The peaks sharp as knives,_

_Thieves and brigands connive._

_“Don’t go!” cried my love,_

_But I couldn’t defy_

_My deep-seated hunger_

_For the hills above!_

_So I journeyed through forests_

_Vicious thorns all around_

_The beasts in the shadows_

_Made naught but a sound_

_When a mage of the wastes,_

_He appeared in the dusk_

_A human face, yes,_

_But I did not trust;_

_For his eyes did glow red,_

_His skin cold as ice;_

_He saw me and said,_

_'Hello, bard. How nice.'_

_He made an advance_

_But I was prepared!_

_I spun in a dance_

_And I doth_ HIT HIM OVER THE HEAD WITH THIS VERY LUTE!"

Jaskier paused his playing, thrusting his lute up above him with his audience in stitches. He quickly resumed, however.

_"He fell and I fled!_

_My heart like a drum,_

_I raced through the forests_

_The thickets and scum!_

_My flight took me down_

_That dark slope of despair,_

_Past boulders and demons_

_And through the cursed air!_

_At last I saw sunlight!_

_I'd made it back safe._

_My love hugged me tight_

_I thanked for my grace._

_And that is my tale,_

_My warning, my hail!_

_Be cautious, be still!_

_Do not hike those hills."_

He finished his tale of adventure and risk to applause, laughter, and yet another shower of precious coin.

"Thank you! Thank you!"

But then. Just then... There was a single shout from the back.

"TOSS A COIN TO YOUR WITCHER!"

That was all it took. 

Within seconds, the entire room was egging him on to play the one song that he _couldn't_ play, he _couldn't, no, not with Geralt THERE and WATCHING and—_

He looked around uneasily before remembering. _"And I won't have you freezing up mid-song, you hear?"_ He swallowed and straightened back up, beaming to play an old... An old favorite.

His mind flashed suddenly.

Geralt was _here._

Jaskier could do it; he could call the man out. Show the witcher that he wasn't afraid, that he didn't care, that he was _happy_ and _thriving_ without him, even playing his song.

"An excellent idea!" the bard called out gleefully. He swung around from where he stood to face Geralt. The man wasn't looking into his eyes, but rather at his lute. "With the man himself here, the great _Geralt of Rivia,_ let us sing the hero's anthem!"

The crowd exploded. Jaskier leapt up to start his dance from a _table_ this time. He held up a hand to quiet the tavern, with the song's soft beginning. As he plucked the first chord, his instincts had him turn to Geralt and sing to _him._ Play to _him._

_"When a humble bard_

_Graced a ride along_

_With—"_

Jaskier went silent and swept his hand to the room, indicating they fill in the blank.

"GERALT OF RIVIA!"

"That's it!

_Along came this song!"_

He fixed his eyes on Geralt's.

_"From when the White Wolf fought..._ _"_

He spun and flounced around, leaning in towards people for dramatic effect, but still keeping his body oriented towards the witcher.

_"_ _They broke down my lute—"_

Ridiculously overexaggerated mock crying broke up the words. He loved the dramatics of his profession, and put them into full swing for this performance.

_"—and they kicked in my teeth!"_

_So cried the witcher..."_

Jaskier trailed off and walked right up to Geralt, looking him right in the piercing yellow eyes. After but a second, he turned back around to face the crowd and delivered the next line with renewed energy.

_"He can't be bleat!"_

He marched forward, repeatedly plucking the first note of the chorus until he was at the center of the room. In just a moment, he spun back around to view everyone present before landing to face Geralt again right as he drove into the chorus.

_"Toss a coin to your witcher,_

_O' Valley of Plenty!"_

The last note was drawn out extra-extra long, _just_ for that little bit of dramatic effect.

_"At the edge of the world_

_Fight the mighty horde..._ _"_

The bard could feel the ropes around his chest and wrists. He could hear the horrifying truth coming from the elves' lips, and could taste the blood in his mouth.

_"He—"_

Jaskier whipped his head to Geralt and _stamped_ his foot on the word _"he"._

_"—thrust every elf..._

_From whence it came!_

_He wiped out your pest—"_

Another grand sweep of his arm.

_"Got kicked in the chest—"_

Doubling over as if in pain.

_"He's a friend of humanity,_

_So give him the rest!"_

He raised his voice and filled his tone so that the next lyrics had a grand, awesome feel.

_"That's my epic tale!_

_Our champion prevails_

_He defeated the villain,_

_Now POUR HIM SOME ALE!"_

Jaskier grabbed someone's ale and thrust it into the air as he sang the line.

The whole building was chanting along at this point, so Jaskier just played and let the crowd repeat the chorus to end the song.

 _He had done it._ Fuck Geralt. (shut up, deep inner thoughts.) DAMN him _and_ the horse he— well, okay, no, he couldn't bring himself to curse Roach. _She_ hadn't wished him to disappear. She was quite a lovely creature, actually.

The tavern's inhabitants seemed contented. Before anything else, Jaskier scrounged around and collected his copious income from the night. After stuffing the last couple of coins into his coin pouch (which, funnily enough, refused to close for the first time in his memory) (he just emptied it of a few coins and dropped those in his pocket so he could safely tie up the pouch at his belt), he strode back to where he had left his instrument case and put his darling back in her protective shell. Slinging the strap over his shoulder, he turned to the door and walked straight out. His work for the night was done anyway; there wasn't any reason for him to stay inside. And the fresh, bitingly cold air was a welcome change from the stuffy heat and anxiety in the tavern. 

For a moment, he simply stood and breathed. 

He was rudely interrupted by an impatient hoof stomping on the packed dirt ground. Looking in the direction of the sound, he saw a familiar face. One that did _not_ send dread like ice down his throat.

"Roach!" Jaskier approached his old friend and let her rub her soft nose on his face. He laughed and patted the side of her head in return. "How've you been, girl? What's it been, months? _Years?_ It's so good to see a friendly face." His response came in the form of a soft nicker and a tail swish. He continued on his usual characteristic good-natured ranting, stroking her face as he talked. "Well, at least, one that doesn't look like it's about to murder me very gruesomely sometime very very soon, and makes me want to run _extremely_ far away at a rather impressive speed. What new places have you been to? I don't know if you could hear it from out here, but a lot of that song about the mountain was actually close to the truth. I _just_ wanted to go and collect just a tiny little bit of birch sap so I could make glue to help a very pretty lady—of course, not as pretty as you—patch up her best shoes! Then that awful mage just _had_ to show up, and I had no choice but to resort to physical violence! It was quite brutish. Geralt does it on a daily basis, and I've seen him _many_ many times, but it's so... So... So _uncivilized!_ I don't know how the man can live the life he does and still fit in civil society. It's absurd, Roach, it really is. You know, I've missed you! I think I still have— One moment..." He fished around in his pocket until he found a plum. "Aha! Er... Let me just..." 

He fiddled with the fruit, trying to find a way to take out the pit without getting juice all over his fingers. He eventually decided that they would have to go half-and-half so that he could just pull the thing out when he bit into it. To his credit, he thought, he did try to make his piece smaller. 

When the offending object was finally on the ground, Jaskier offered the rest of the plum to his friend. She accepted it and nudged him appreciatively. 

"Quite divine, isn't it? The barkeep has a plum tree out behind the building, and there's a sizeable meadow there where his children—two girls and a boy; they are absolutely delightful just by the way—play in the sun. And sometimes when it's sunny and nice out, their very kind and welcoming mother will sit out there with them and teach them reading and writing. I've only been here a couple days, but yesterday she asked me to help tutor the children, as the middle sister is struggling with spelling and such, and it was a very nice time. I was so glad when she said 'misser jasker, thank you for helping me! I learned lots!' Honestly I never really had much of a liking for children, but these three are growing on me. Speaking of which, what's become of that Child Surprise? Geralt's been _terribly_ irresponsible about that. Has he wisened up at all, or is he still determined to be that stoic, independent, boring, _decidedly_ stubborn, b— Roach! I was mid-sentence, how rude!" Roach had interrupted him by firmly pushing him in the shoulder. Jaskier was _highly_ indignant. 

"What wa—" The horse _huffed_ forcefully in his face, startling him a split second before something else startled him more. Much, much, much more.

"Jaskier. Why are you monologuing to my horse." It wasn't inflected as a question. Very little was, in that voice. 

A hurricane of thoughts and feelings raged through the bard's mind. He didn't expect them to settle where they did, but. Well, they did.

"Ah! Geralt, old boy, you startled me!"

"...did I now." The witcher's voice was as gravelly and indifferent as ever.

"Quite!" Jaskier carefully crafted a lighthearted tone, but there was murderous rage and very deep hurt in his chest. "As _boorish_ as ever, I see." A beaming smile.

Geralt stared down at him, expression hard and stony. 

"Move," he growled.

"Ahh, just the man I remember: of few words and fewer manners! Really, Geralt, you must address that one of these days."

Geralt continued to stare him down with his Scary Witcher Face—it was specifically named; Jaskier had named all of Geralt's few facial expressions for easy identification and description. In any case, Geralt had apparently forgotten that Scary Witcher Face was not one that at all intimidated the bard.

"Gods, stop it with the cold-blooded murder face. It's going to give you wrinkles."

Geralt opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to lose his words. His sharp jaw worked furiously for a moment before he finally spoke again.

"What are you doing here, bard?" The question came out as a harsh snap.

"Just making a living, you know. Trying to make some _new_ friends. Preferably ones who don't have a penchant for breaking my heart into _very_ small, _very_ sharp pieces." He laughed breezily, maintaining his cheery tone. "There aren't many who're willing to spend the best decade of my life traveling the continent with me, though. Gah, it's so hard to find a good friend these days! You never know if they really care about you in return, or if they're constantly on the edge of blaming you for everything wrong in their life and wishing you away. Honestly, it must be how socie— Hey!"

Geralt had picked up the smaller man by the collar and placed him a meter away from the witcher and horse.

"There's a lot you're not saying."

Jaskier's glee broke instantly. His face, demeanor, and voice shifted to hard, ugly sarcasm.

"Oh, how could you tell? I suppose you wouldn't be able to even _comprehend_ it, anyway; witchers don't feel emotions, right, so I wouldn't expect one to understand the emotions of others." Geralt's left eyebrow twitched. Jaskier's chest burst with savage satisfaction at seeing that his words were affecting the witcher. "You know, I really was convinced that wasn't true, spending all those years with you, but I guess I was wrong, just like you said twice a day! I took it as affectionate, but looking back, _I_ think you were just being a little bitchy witchy! Yeah, fuck you, _Geralt of Rivia._ You did so much for me, I thought you cared about me as much as I did about you. I can only assume that I just _thought_ you were doing things _for_ me and _with_ me, and not just doing them while I just fucking _happened_ to be there! I did what I could for you, what I thought might help you or cheer you up. I _cared,_ Geralt. I _cared._ It would be a fucking miracle if you managed to form a proper response, to tell me that no, you _did_ care, that you _didn't_ mean what you said in _no uncertain terms_ last time I saw your ugly mug, let alone with your vocabulary, which from what I've seen, is just grunting and swearing. So I answer your question with a question." He twisted his face to make his voice grating and nasally. "'What are you doing here, bard?' I ask you this: What are you doing here, _w_ _itcher?"_

Jaskier spat at the man's feet. He patted Roach fondly before leaving to return to his room, walking away from Geralt with a look to draw blood. He entered the warm, sparkling, chattery tavern and was not affected by the atmosphere at all. He was hailed by several people, but he barely paid them any heed. His face had reset to its default smile, so no one probably suspected that anything was particularly wrong. Maybe he was just tired. 

He climbed the stairs slowly and took his time going down the hall to his rented room. Once the door had closed quietly behind him, Jaskier took off his instrument and set it gently on the floor beside the head of the bed. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the wood floor.

He wanted to cry. He considered the pillow beside him, but decided the fabric was too rough to sob grossly into. That was a price he refused to pay, even for the sake of dramatics. His skin was far too delicate; he couldn't afford...

Ah, fuck it. Thinking as himself, _being_ himself, was doing nothing but hurting him right now. 

The floor was still very interesting.

He'd never called Geralt "witcher" like that before. Maybe a couple times when they first met, but that was casual, lighthearted, for effect. Other than that, he'd only ever used it as a common noun; _never_ a proper one. To Jaskier it had always felt almost like a slur; it reduced the individual to just _what_ they were, and what Geralt was... Wasn't very widely accepted. Jaskier didn't particularly appreciate being addressed as "bard," but he had learned over the years that that was just Geralt being Geralt, and he didn't mean anything by it. He usually called Jaskier by his name, anyway. 

A small jolt ran through him. _"Jaskier, come here." "Jaskier!" "Shut up, Jaskier." "Jaskier. You're alive." "Jaskier, are you okay?" "RUN, Jaskier!" "Leave me be, Jaskier..." "Oh, Jaskier." "Wake up, Jaskier!"_

The stupid fucking name. In that stupid fucking voice. Making his stupid fucking stomach flip and flutter.

_"Dammit, Jaskier!"_

He'd thought he never wanted to hear that voice again, to remember how it sounded with his name. It pained him, a sharp, sickening ache of a pain, to realize there was a new entry on the endless list.

_"Jaskier."_

He didn't want to hear it again. Unfortunately, as usual, as every single _god damned night,_ his dreaming mind had other ideas. 

It was an endless circle of torture that he had learned to live with. 

Wake up; hear him telling you to hurry up. Live the day; hear him commenting on what you say and do and think. Perform; see him in the back corner. No. Shake your head. Don't see him in the back corner. Take an evening walk; hear him reminding you to stay alert. Go to drink; hear him... Well, _feel_ him watching with each drink you consume. Wash up; hear the conversations around the bathtub. Go to bed; hear his grunt and sigh and eventual snore. 

Final step: dream. That was the worst one. That was the worst one, because the face was there. The lips were there, to move and shape around the phonetics of it. 

_Jaskier._

Again. 

_Jaskier._

Again, different. 

_Jaskier,_ with a heart-wrenching smile. 

Again, different, but not painful, please.

_Jaskier!_

No. That hurt too.

_Jaskier..._

No! What are you doing?!

_Jaskier,_ with fingers just brushing his jaw.

This HURTS!

_Jaskier..._ just whispered. warm breath on his lips. heart bounding. soul soothed. 

_Jask..._ just a softly breathed word, echoing until 

WAKE UP! _"Jaskier, get up."_

Everything started again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And agai 

Jaskier shot up, gasping for air as though he'd been underwater. His mind was filled with quickly fading echoes of his name.

Someone was pounding on the door.

Saying his name.

It was Geralt's voice.

Geralt's fists on the door.

His nightmares were turning into daymares, it seemed.

"Jaskier! Open the damn door, I'm sorry I yelled last night! I wanted to talk to you but I didn't have a clue what to say. Once you made it clear how much I hurt you, I—"

Jaskier yanked the door open, _fully_ not in the mood for fucked-up pranks. He opened his mouth to start berating whoever it was, but froze when he saw Geralt himself standing in the hall, looking worse than Jaskier had ever seen him. His stony face was twisted with actual _emotion,_ and what it was broke the bard down completely.

Desperation.

Guilt.

Terror.

"Are you... What the bloody hell _happened?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **drowninginchamomiletea** snorted. 
> 
> "Yes, I owe you my fic, dear beta."
> 
>  **glythandra** laughed, freely and fully. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 12 Feb 2020: I embellished the last scene to make it more grisly  
> Edit 16 Mar 2020: just noticed the typo "Kaer Morgen". Changed it to Kaer Morhen accordingly

"Jaskier, I'm so sorry..." 

Jaskier was... Well, fear didn't describe the _half_ of it.

And his thoughts hit a bump every time Geralt mumbled another apology, so that wasn't very helpful either. 

"Geralt, _please._ I can't think."

Jaskier stood in the middle of the room, trying to wind up his brain to full capacity in the early morning without having eaten.

"You'll need to eat something if you want anything to come out of that skull—" the witcher stopped abruptly, looking vaguely irate.

"...yeah, I was just thinking the same. I'll get dressed."

"You don't have to—" Geralt put a hand over his face. "...get on with it." 

* * *

Once they were downstairs, in proper lighting, Jaskier could fully appreciate just how utterly _awful_ Geralt looked. He had his usual post-battle scuffs and scrapes, which wasn't really anything new, but... _Gods._ He was unusually pale, something Jaskier had never seen from him before. His catlike, usually amber eyes were down to their most relaxed color, that more human brown-grey. He didn't look particularly relaxed, however. Concerningly, Jaskier noticed, Geralt's hands were twisting and fidgeting. That was _not_ something witchers did. 

Perhaps most striking, though, was the look on his face, in his eyes. Still swirling and dark: upset, confusion, fear, and worst of all, _guilt._

"Okay, Geralt," Jaskier said, two ales, several rolls, and a couple of plums now in front of them. It was early morning, and the tavern was deserted. Sarin had gone to work the garden so the two could have some privacy. "What happened. I want the whole gruesome story, every detail and thought and—"

"ImsorryIcameback."

Jaskier paused.

"I... Well, I mean, that's not exactly what I meant when..."

"Yeah, er. Sorry," Geralt grunted, staring into his ale.

"So... That story."

"R-right." The large man sat up straight and took a long drink of ale, then a bite of bread. “The barkeep hired me to take care of the kobold up on the mountain.”

Jaskier blanched.

“You— You went up on the mountain!? After you _specifically heard my stor—”_

“Jaskier,” Geralt deadpanned, “you and I both know that your stories are rarely anything but hearsay and pretty words." He raised his eyebrows at Jaskier. Before either could say anything more, he said an additional couple of words. "Essentially lies.” 

“They— _what!? Lies?!”_

"I did mean that. I wasn't going to put it that way because— _fuck!_ I can't _stop... TALKING!"_ Geralt gritted his teeth and set his jaw, growling against the words flooding from his throat. They kept coming, but he _absolutely would not_ let them escape.

They were still escaping, even with his lips sealed shut over his teeth.

Jaskier... Really didn't want to listen.

It was _really_ hard not to listen.

Something about... Music? Jaskier being an idiot? Well, that was nothing new. Putting himself in danger, almost getting killed by some ultra-powerful mage, blah, blah, blah... Wishing he had never yelled at Jaskier at all, something about missing him... In... Not the ways Jaskier expected... Hating waking up alone... The quiet all day... Hearing him singing but it was really just some noise in the forest... Missing having... A... A warm human presence... It felt cold at night without him... Everything was... _Empty..._ The witcher missed Jaskier's lectures whenever he got really hurt or... His complaints when an inn was particularly run-down... The silence... Agonizing....

By the time Geralt had finished, Jaskier was absolutely lost for words. It was as though the witcher had used up all of _both_ of their words. The bard sat openmouthed, staring at Geralt, whose face spelled murder. 

"Just to be _sure,"_ he growled, looking as though he might just be on the edge of rampaging around the building and gruesomely offing everyone in it, "that was all only heard here. Every last word was true." An infuriated grunt. _"No!"_

"Ooo-kay," Jaskier said slowly. "Just start from the beginning."

The roll in Geralt's hand suffered a violent tear. As he was chewing, Geralt huffed in frustration. 

"Barkeep hired me. Kobold on the mountain. Offed it easy. Turned out it was companion to some mage." A quiet growl. "Caught me unawares. Something about seeing what it's like to be human. Slammed me with a spell." A gulp of ale, the mug set down with a loud _CLNK._ "Tried to fight the bastard off, but he disappeared. So I came back down here. 'least I'd got the kobold." Silence.

"And...?" Jaskier asked tentatively. "Surely that can't be it. How'd you figure out—"

"I got the payment and the barkeep asked me how it went!" Geralt snapped. "I told him every last detail!" He closed his eyes and pinched his nose. "Took me to the town mage. All she could say was I'd been cursed. Powerful one. All I could think was I couldn't get this fixed alone. So I ran back here and found your room. I needed you. _Argh!"_ He finished his story eloquently with a sharp hand to his own face.

"I just missed being _cursed_ while I was up there?" Jaskier said incredulously. "I c—"

"I swear, if you're about to say you wish it'd been you so you'd have content for your songs, I _will_ kill you. But I won't. I'd never kill you. GODS!" 

Jaskier would be doubled over laughing if not for the look of agony on the witcher's face. 

"O-okay," he said, patting Geralt's arm and trying _very_ hard not to start giggling, "let's— let's see what we can do about this." 

The bard looked up again to see a strained, pained expression on his frien... On the larger man's face. His laughter faded quickly and he retracted his hand.

"What is it?" he asked, concern and confusion creasing his brow. Geralt looked away, clearly uncomfortable. It was strange enough that he was actually bearing decipherable facial expressions. 

"I can't. Be in this state." The words tumbled out, no matter what the man tried to stop them. His visage was twisted with the effort of controlling his words. "Saying everything. Can't... Do this."

"Oh..."

"How do humans... _Do_ this?" He gritted his teeth and concentrated. "Live... Feeling everything... Saying everything..." His eyes closed briefly. "How the fuck do you do this and stay so _chipper_ all the time, Jaskier?"

Jaskier, for his part, was struggling not to spill his thoughts and feelings on the matter. 

_'I dunno, we just... Do?' 'Much better to write miserable love songs than push everything down into a deep, dark corner of your broken heart.' 'When you keep everything in your head, I suppose there's no room for anything else.' 'I think it hurts more keeping things inside in the long run.' 'Catharsis, Geralt. Catharsis.'_

But he didn't. Instead, the bard tilted his head to the side and gave the honest answer that came to him.

"I don't."

* * *

The problem with sharing his room, Jaskier quickly realized, was that he could no longer have moments of panic or misery to himself. He started wearing a long tunic to bed so that he could slip out at night to have a moment in the freezing air outside. He still didn't actually shed a tear more than once a week, but the dreams were worse. So much worse.

Geralt was hardly ever around during the day. He left before dawn and returned long after the residents of Verin had gone to sleep. He was always out hunting monsters, and when he wasn't doing that, he was... Well, Jaskier actually didn't have much of a clue what the witcher filled his time with. 

Jaskier was hardly sleeping at all. Due to the fact that he was staying put in one town for the moment, he composed a few new melodies simply out of necessity. He continued to perform in Sarin's tavern each night, and as a result was beginning to accumulate more coin than he had the capacity to store. He muttered to himself about it one day while he mended a split seam in his coin pouch, and not two days later he found a much larger leather pouch sitting on his bed. Jaskier had his suspicions, but had little way to confirm them, as Geralt barely spoke to him except for the occasional awkward question about emotions and sometimes a blurted word or two about his care for the bard.

It was... Very strange. 

Jaskier looked at Geralt and saw a man turned inside-out. No longer the very picture of stoicism, the witcher was now twitchy and constantly on edge, distracted by each and every thought. The man was slowly going mad; stripped of his right to privacy, he was forced to confront his thoughts head-on and alone for the first time in his adult life.

* * *

It was Jaskier who suggested one evening that they get on the road. Geralt immediately exploded with words, _vehemently_ agreeing. So they stayed one more night (much to Geralt's chagrin) and left early in the morning at the witcher's urging, taking a bag of rolls with them and Jaskier leaving a small pile of gold behind the bar. 

They left Verin behind them before the sun rose. Geralt allowed Jaskier to ride behind him on Roach's back, which was unusual enough. Much moreso was the moment when Jaskier woke up blearily and realized he had an arm draped around Geralt's torso and a cheek pressed against his shoulder blade. Years ago, this would have seen Jaskier's swift death. Now, Geralt simply rode in silence, one finely clothed arm wrapped around his waist and the other resting on his thigh.

Jaskier would have been content to sit like this for hours, until they reached their destination. Ear against Geralt's back, listening to the deep hum of his voice as he spoke his thoughts under his breath; arm around him, feeling supported and warm. 

But alas, Geralt was a witcher, and could sense a mouse's heartbeat twenty meters away. 

"You're awake," he grunted. 

"H-how long was I out?" Jaskier asked with a yawn, not daring to move. Somehow, he wasn't immediately thrown off Roach's back.

"Couple hours. It was getting cold. You probably fell asleep as part of your body's natural response to the drop in temperature."

"So— woah!" 

Roach hopped down a small natural step, startling Jaskier. Instinctually, he straightened up and drew his arms tighter around Geralt.

Gods, it felt good.

His forehead bumped against the back of Geralt's neck, pushing the bard's nose into dirty white hair, but honestly he wasn't much for caring considering his current closeness to the subject of so many songs. Jaskier's face was _definitely_ heating up, and he wanted badly to press it into the witcher's back and hold tight right there, with his own thin arms wrapped snug around Geralt's bulk, the two riding in relative silence, feeling th— Dammit.

"Jaskier, are you okay?" The bard quickly leaned back and released his hold on Geralt as the larger man spoke again. "Your pulse is... Unusually fast. Even for you." A tiny sigh. "I'm getting used to this. I may just let it happen. It's too much bloody effort holding it in. There's a lot I can't control. I may let something slip I don't want to. Can't afford to. Gods, my voice is getting tired..."

"Geralt?" Jaskier asked, after a bit of quiet rambling from his... His friend.

"What?"

"Did you ever learn anything about the arts, at Kaer Morhen?"

Geralt went dead silent.

"...is that a no," Jaskier said slowly, "or are you trying to think of something?"

"It's a no."

Jaskier hummed thoughtfully, unsurprised but nevertheless annoyed with Vesemir, the blundering idiot, for depriving his charges of such a vital part of their education. Someone really should have done something about that.

"Uhuh. S'pose that explains a lot."

"Not wrong, from what I've gathered," Geralt muttered. Jaskier sniggered.

"Well, here: I'll play a few tunes. I think you need it right now."

"Oh, Gods no."

"No singing or anything," the bard added hurriedly. "Just, er..."

Jaskier pulled out his lute and plucked a peaceful tune. As the melody went on, it became more complex. More elements were being woven in, balancing each other's influence and complementing each other's sound.

"Soothing," Geralt mumbled. Jaskier fumbled and missed a note, but continued playing.

Some time later, Jaskier somehow managed to drift off again mid-song. He was woken up rudely by a hand on his upper arm.

"Be careful. You were about to fall off Ro—" Geralt froze. Jaskier sensed something suddenly very wrong in the witcher's demeanor, and straightened up.

"What is it? What's happening?"

"Jaskier, have a little self-preservation for once and shut up. I won't have you going and dying on me. Roach, woah."

"Geralt, what's—"

"Jaskier! _Please!"_ Jaskier shut up at the tightening of Geralt's hand on his arm. "Put the lute away," Geralt hissed, and Jaskier complied.

For what felt like quite a while, they sat in silence, Geralt stiff and alert and Jaskier hiding behind the witcher's broad frame.

"Just don't let the bard get hurt. Can't let that happen. Jaskier stays safe. I'm the one jumping into the fray. I'm _made_ for it. But if I don't get that moron off my mind, I'm going to die from being too busy daydreaming to focus on fighting. St—" Geralt's body suddenly jerked around to the side so that he was completely blocking Jaskier's view of anything in front of them, and he heard a very distinct _thwnck_ mere centimeters away.

"Damn."

Jaskier watched in horror as, after that spectacularly _nonchalant_ reaction, Geralt yanked a crossbow bolt from his own shoulder as if he were simply removing a rather large splinter. Jaskier thought he might throw up at the ripping sound of the arrow being torn unceremoniously from rippling muscle and flesh. Blood staining the shirt beneath his armor, the witcher leapt gracefully from his steed's saddle. With a _shlink_ his sword was drawn, shearing through the air in a crescent of steel, and his stance was readied by the instant his feet hit the ground. 

_Clank._ The sword flashed into motion and Jaskier saw something fall to the ground, its flight stopped by the flat of the blade. The bard scrambled off of Roach's back and, after much tripping and stumbling, ran as fast as his legs would carry him in the opposite direction.

He'd forgotten about this part of traveling with Geralt. What a pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 23 Feb 2020: I somehow forgot to credit my terrific beta reader **glythandra**!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback time!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In classic style, I couldn't resist posting a new chapter. This is the first of probably a smattering of Ciri flashbacks!

Ciri asked far too many questions.

"What happened to that bard? The one who wrote that song about you two?"

"We parted ways."

"Why? When?"

"A few years ago."

"Why?" she repeated insistently.

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does!"

"It doesn't, Ciri."

"Then why can't you just say it?"

He didn't answer.

"Geraaaaalt!" The word was drawn out in a childish moan. The witcher didn't respond. "Why does no one ever answer me when I have questions!?" the girl burst frustratedly. Geralt simply grunted, drawing a very incensed huff from the Princess. "Least of all you, of course. You know, I think a bard _would_ give you some good company. Somebody who'll chatter at you, smile and sing all the time. Somebody with some sparkle!"

"You don't know what you're talking about, Princess."

Ciri threw up her arms.

"OHH, BRILLIANT, here it goes with the 'Princess' stuff again! Adults always change how they address me when they decide to treat me as a child rather than an adult. No 'Ciri, be quiet.' It's always 'Quiet, Princess—'" The girl paused before going on in a comically deepened voice. "'—let the grown-ups talk; real life is no place for the Lion Cub of Cintra!'" She scowled and dropped the fake voice. "Or so I'm told. Though that REALLY doesn't make much sense, does it; if I'm to rule Cintra someday, I need to know what's going on! So if our destinies are to be intertwined, then I think anything you feel the need to hide DOES matter! _Geralt of Rivia._ Hmph!"

Geralt _really_ didn't know how to handle this. He was in eternal awe of the women who managed to carry this through with grace and sanity, and even raise a functional citizen in the process. Children were _impossible._

At the very least, Princess Cirilla was impossible. 

* * *

"GERALT!"

The shout echoed between the trees, and Geralt's senses were bombarded with disorienting reflections of the sound.

He was up before his mind had fully returned to consciousness. Out of his bedroll, hand on his sword, the witcher took a split second to triangulate the source of the still-echoing cry. A normal human couldn't have heard the echoes anymore; only Geralt's sharp witcher senses were privy to the sound. 

There was nothing and no one apart from trees and ferns between the camp and Ciri's location, making it a simple five-second sprint through the sparse undergrowth. The girl came into view amongst the trees, close to a stream. Geralt felt a rush of relief to see her standing up straight and looking overall relatively unharmed, if very pale. However, he still crashed through the bushes to reach her side quickly.

"Ciri! What's happened?!" 

The girl leapt at him and grabbed his free hand.

"Nilfgaard," she said breathlessly. "Look." Pulling the witcher along, she walked to a slightly higher point, where there was a good view of the valley beyond the next hill. Indeed, there was a large military camp at the mouth of the valley. The Nilfgaardian colors were visible from even this distance in the pale dawn light, and Geralt could make out their crest. 

Move. They had to move. 

"Come on." The witcher tugged the Princess in the direction of their camp.

"You can let go of my hand!" she said, annoyed. "I am perfectly capable of walking on my own."

Geralt didn't look back, but released her hand. 

"We need to get moving. Quickly." 

"I KNOW! Why do you think I _screamed_ to get you to wake up and smell the Nilfgaard?!"

He grunted. _Fair point._

"Exactly," Ciri responded with a huff.

Within ten minutes, camp was torn down and covered up. Geralt lifted Ciri up onto Roach's back and hopped on in front of her all in one fluid motion, then set Roach moving at a brisk jog. They couldn't afford for Nilfgaard to catch wind of Ciri being in the area. That Dark Knight guy or whatever— he would surely be with them. He was too much of a threat, too dangerous of a challenge, to chance running into. 

"Where are we going?" Ciri asked, once they had been moving for a half hour or so.

"I'm not sure." Geralt paused, thinking. "Somewhere safe." Ciri rolled her eyes.

"Duh," she said under her breath.

"A place where you'll be safe, and..." The witcher fell silent for several minutes before concluding, "Roach, let's go." He pushed the mare into a light run, speeding the trio through the smaller, wilder valleys higher in the mountains.

* * *

"How far away is this witch?"

"Infuriatingly far," Geralt said, grinding his teeth. As on many occasions, he found himself cursing witches for their damned slippery nature and unreasonably cryptic _everything._ They seemed to delight in driving people absolutely _mad._ Security by way of extraordinary inconvenience was a witch's favorite thing.

And _damn,_ was it annoying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 23 Feb 2020: I forgot to credit my beta reader **glythandra** here, too, hahah. They're wonderful!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is pretty emotional.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW THIS TOOK AGES BUT I HOPE IT'S WORTH IT!! 
> 
> jfc i just checked and this behemoth is 3700 words precisely

Geralt hopped down from Roach's back, throwing the bloody arrow to the ground and drawing his sword. Steel, he chose. No reason to break out the silver yet.

Of course, he said this out loud, but that was hardly his greatest concern at the moment. He was somewhat focused on deflecting projectiles. He actually had a bit less to worry about than usual; in a rare moment of good sense, Jaskier had bolted at the first  _ clang  _ of metal against metal. "There's always the question of what mortally perilous mess he'll get himself into while this fight is still going, but at this point it's all on him, and I'll just have to go save his stupid ass. Again. Fun routine. Shouldn't care about him enough to do that, but here we are." Geralt slipped into close fighting range with the grace of a water snake weaving between rocks on a riverbed. "Let's dance, stranger."

The figure was stocky, with a broad and solid build. Not particularly tall— perhaps a few centimeters shorter than Jaskier. It was quick, but, naturally, Geralt was quicker. Now that they were in closer quarters, it wielded a long, vicious-looking dagger. The witcher leapt forward to slash at the brigand's arm, but his opponent twisted out of the way just as the blade broke skin. The cut wasn't very deep, but it was enough to garner a hiss and quickly draw blood.

Now bleeding lightly, it attempted to pull off its cloak, dodging under Geralt's arm as he took another swing at it. The garment was torn, however, and the tear got snagged on the dagger's hilt, leaving fabric wrapped around the figure's face. Having won the scrap, the witcher delivered a kick to the backs of the figure's knees, making it buckle instantly and crumple face-first to the ground. He also heard the expected  _ crack  _ of a left leg failing.

"That was fast. Didn't even have to try," Geralt rumbled automatically. The figure's face was now visible, revealing him to be a man in his 30s or 40s. A short, unkempt beard covered his jaw, but his upper lip was completely devoid of any signs of anything similar. He had hard, stern lines seemingly carved into his tough, dark skin, 

"The... The bard," the stranger snarled breathlessly. "Where is he?"

Geralt paused for a second or two in mock-contemplation, then shrugged sharply and fixed the person with a hard stare.

"I don't know. That's for him to not know and me to figure out. Now, if you don't mind, I have a nitwit to save again from somebody else. Move, scum." The witcher picked up his attacker by the collar and placed him on Roach's back before hopping on behind him. Geralt nudged the mare into motion in the same direction Jaskier had run off. "Name," he grunted as they started moving.

"Cor," the man said bitterly.

* * *

The forest, of course, was empty enough. No sign of anyone, including the babbling bard. An occasional mouse or rabbit scurrying through the undergrowth, birds calling warnings of trespassers, the scratching of small creatures living in and under trees. 

"Where  _ is  _ he?!" Cor demanded.

"I know as well as you do," Geralt growled. "Now shut up." He pulled on Roach's reigns to slow her down and looked around, letting his senses open up. The pain and anger oozing from Cor in front of him were overpowering, masking most other smells. He eventually got fed up enough with this to halt Roach and jump to the ground.

"I can't fucking... Ugh! I'll just tie him up." The witcher tied the man's hands tightly behind his back and roped his feet together beneath Roach. After a moment of consideration, he also bound Cor's torso around the horse's upper chest, threading the rope both beneath and around his already restricted arms. Finished, Geralt checked over all his work to ensure the bastard couldn't run off. Sure, his leg was broken, but one could never be too careful.

"Make sure he doesn't try anything stupid," Geralt murmured, patting Roach on the neck. She gave a solemn nicker and nudged him away. "Yeah. I know. I'm going. I'll be back soon. If I'm not, er... Stay here." She snorted at him and he scoffed. "Just wait here."

After a final narrow-eyed glare of warning at Cor, the witcher turned and walked ahead on his own. It was vastly easier without the man's cloying smell right there in his face. That same face was now raised to the wind, breathing deeply to catch any scents that might be in the air. At the same time, his sensitive eardrums reached their focus far out into the forest around him, becoming less and less encumbered as he distanced himself from Roach and Cor. He released his stream of consciousness only a hair under his breath, just below a soft murmur. It seemed that anything quieter wasn't good enough to satisfy the curse's conditions.

"...a twig crack. Just a fox."

"Leaves rustling, and scrabbling... Squirrel running up a tree."

"A heartbeat, muffled probably by a den or nest. Fast enough to be a deer, maybe even a bobcat or fox."

Geralt stopped suddenly. He had walked into a veritable  _ wall  _ of air that was thick with pain and terror. Slowly, he moved forwards, unnaturally sharp eyes sweeping his surroundings. He didn't call out, for fear of revealing his presence and position to the wrong entity. 

"Something's  _ very  _ injured... Somewhere here."

He continued his cautious exploration onward, deducing the pulse to be indeed coming from the ground rather than anywhere above. At this point, he was beginning to detect fast, panicked, quiet breathing. Based on the characteristics of the sound it wasn't  _ entirely  _ underground; more than likely there was a hollow in the roots of one of the ancient, enormous trees around him. It was just a matter of figuring out which one... It could have been any one of them; he was stepping over huge, twisted, mossy roots left and— 

He suddenly heard a shift of wet leaves and duff, and he stilled. The breathing was gone, and the heartbeat was quicker than ever. 

"Jaskier?" He was, by this time, sure that the panicked creature was in fact the bard. It was clear from exactly which tree the sound had come, and the witcher increased his pace, forming a beeline for a large gap in the roots. From several meters away, he caught sight of a blue doublet and the edge of a lute case. "Jaskier!"

The bard abruptly started breathing again, now gasping like a drowning man, and struggled to squeeze himself out of his hiding place. 

"GEralt! Oh, gods, I'm saved! Geralt, I need a bit of, uh, help." Crashing waves of relief and even  _ joy  _ flooded from the tree's roots. "Fuck!" the bard hissed, as an afterthought.

Geralt covered the remaining distance separating the two, took Jaskier's outstretched hands, and yanked him out of the hole. The bard howled in pain and immediately toppled to the ground when Geralt attempted to set him upright.

"Geralt," he wheezed, eyes watering copiously, "you may have noticed, but I, you know, just speculating, broke my leg. It's— well, it doesn't look its absolute  _ fi _ nest.”

He was right. There was a grotesque shape beneath the fabric of his trousers, and his calf  _ definitely _ did not look as straight as it should have overall. 

“Care to give me a hand? I am, understandably I do hope, having quite some difficulty, er, standing up, er, on my feet, as, ah, as it were." He directed a strained smile up at the witcher towering over him. His eyes were losing their focus and going cloudy, and he abruptly swayed where he sat. He was about to pass out from the sheer pain he was experiencing. After a very long moment, Geralt finally grunted, leaned down to lift the bard from his sprawled-out position in the dirt, and slung the smaller man over his right shoulder, generating loud squawks of protest.

When Geralt returned to Roach, a fuming Cor was still secured on her back. For her sake, the final arrangement was for the two injured parties to sit on her back while Geralt walked alongside them. Before the group started moving, the witcher made Jaskier knock back a potion to keep his pain in check and maintain his consciousness. 

* * *

When they arrived in Lande, they palmed off Cor onto a city guard after a short explanation of what had happened. The young blond assured them Cor would be locked up for the time being, then pointed them in the direction of the local healing mage's house. It wasn't hard to find, and the pair plus Roach were there in minutes. Roach stopped to be tied up outside the building and the bard and the witcher prepared themselves to head in. Geralt tucked his coin pouch in his belt before turning to Jaskier and holding out his arms. Jaskier's face shifted through several different expressions until he realized what Geralt intended him to do, and his eyes went very wide.

"Oohohoh, ohoh, oh no, nooononononono, this is  _ not _ how we're going to do this," he said nervously, leaning away from the witcher. "Not on my watch, we're— hahaha, Geralt—" Geralt reached out to grab him, face flatly exasperated, and the bard scrabbled ineffectively several centimeters across Roach's saddle. "Ger- _ Geralt!"  _ he spluttered as Geralt's hands managed to find purchase on the smaller man and he was lifted up from the horse's back.

To his absolute  _ horror,  _ Geralt did  _ not  _ simply sling Jaskier over his shoulder as he had back in the forest. Instead, the witcher shifted his arms so he was essentially  _ cradling  _ Jaskier.

Jaskier felt heat scorching behind his face and eyes. He _willed_ himself with all he had _not_ to "inexplicably" get hard and have _that_ awkward moment. Unfortunately, he could barely think with Geralt carrying him. He felt so _safe_ with the strong arms around him. His ear was pressed up against the witcher's chest, letting him hear the comforting rhythm of Geralt's slow, steady heartbeat and the constant stream of words in his wide chest. The bard felt a song— _really, Jaskier? A song? NOW?_ —budding within his own smaller body, which was quite distractingly held tight to Geralt's larger frame.

"Is he feverish?" A voice floated into his mind. "He looks quite flushed... And dizzy, at that."

Jaskier returned to reality and swiveled his head back and forth, taking in his surroundings. In front of Geralt—Jaskier had to crane his neck to look down at her—stood a minute little mage who looked about a thousand years old and like she had never caught wind that wrinkles were very much out of style. Behind her there was a dank and shadowy room with a dirty stone floor and many, many very old-looking wooden shelves, all of which were packed to bursting with bottles and jars containing various alchemical ingredients and sundry medical and magical supplies.

"No, I'm fine, really, it's just my— Geralt, would you  _ please _ put me down?" The witcher's already firm grip on him had tightened when the old mage had reached up to touch Jaskier's bright red cheek. He was starting to feel the effects of the cut off circulation in his arms and legs. Speaking of which, his leg was throbbing worse than ever. He squirmed in Geralt’s arms, achieving nothing apart from making the larger man glower down at him. He gave up, letting himself go limp. “First of all,” he pouted, “Geralt, I can’t feel  _ any  _ of my limbs of now, so if you could loosen the  _ death-grip,  _ it would be greatly appreciated.” 

Geralt  _ harrumph _ ed, but relaxed his hold on the bard. Jaskier then turned his head to peer down at the tiny old mage. She frowned up at him. Gods, why was everyone  _ frowning  _ so much?!

“Second of all, despite what my very dear, very  _ grumpy  _ friend here insists, I’m  _ fine.  _ I just—" He stopped, realizing he couldn't possibly minimize his current condition. He continued before anyone could interrupt him. "...er, broke my leg.” The mage stared him down, raising her eyebrows. “I think.” She shifted her weight, looking at him as though he were a difficult child. “Uh... A little?”

"Jaskier," Geralt growled softly. It was a warning, Jaskier knew. 

He also wasn't afraid of the witcher one bit.

"Well! If you'll just let me down, I'll be on my way," he said briskly, more than ready to make his escape. He  _ couldn't  _ stick around with Geralt holding him like this. Bad things would happen. Bad, bad things. Things like very difficult-to-explain-away boners. He managed to worm his way out of Geralt's grip and made what should've been a (not truly) graceful drop to the floor if not for the unexpected obstacle of—  **_"FUGGKAH!!"_ **

Okay, this particular shriek of pain he  _ might  _ want obliterated from the history books. He went momentarily deaf and spots threatened to completely obscure his vision as his weight fell on his right foot, which was the  _ wrong foot.  _ When he came back to, panting heavily, he was once again suspended above the floor, calloused hands around his  _ bare  _ waist where his shirt had slipped up

“Apologies,” Geralt said to the mage. “He’s an idiot. Now, shall we get on with mending the latest consequence of said idiocy?”

"Give him this," the mage said, clucking testily and giving Geralt a small bottle. 

If his eyes weren't streaming in white-hot pain, Jaskier might have been able to resist Geralt  _ yanking  _ his head back by the hair, grumbling throughout, in order to pry his mouth open and force a potion down his throat. The bard couldn't find it in himself to fight back, having daydreamed of being in this particular position  _ innumerable  _ times. Why did Geralt have to make things so  _ difficult!?  _ The last thing he saw as he faded away was the witcher’s face centimeters away from his own. His panicked mind then finally lost its grip on consciousness, and the bard was swallowed by darkness.

* * *

He woke up to  _ oppressive  _ silence. He sat up quickly and felt sheets fall from his torso as he did so. He was in a small bed in a dingy room with a grimy little window to his right overlooking infinite empty hills and fields.

To his left, across the room, was Geralt. The witcher was standing and approaching the bed, but it looked as though he had been sharpening one of his blades when Jaskier awoke. 

Fully prepared to give Geralt a piece of his mind, Jaskier opened his mouth and 

" —"

He froze.

He couldn't hear his own voice. 

He tried again.

" ... !?" The bard touched his throat and confirmed that it was indeed vibrating with sound. His hands then moved to paw at his ears desperately.  _ "Geralt, why can't I hear anything?!"  _ he screeched, although he was still completely deaf to his own speech and all other sound.

Wait... Deaf. Oh,  _ gods.  _ Had he gone  _ deaf?  _ How would he perform?! How would he go on  _ living  _ without music?!? He would never hear the sweet voice of his darling lute again... He slumped over, the beginnings of tears forming beneath his eyelids.

"My lute," he tried to say, finding it difficult to speak with the miserable tightness in his throat and bizzare not to hear his own voice. "Where is she, Geralt? Give me my lute..." He gave a heavy  _ sniff  _ and looked up at the other man with watery eyes. 

The other man, for his part, was entirely unimpressed. He went to the bedstand, upon which sat paper along with a quill and ink. He picked up the quill and dipped it in the open jar of ink, then set in writing. After a very long minute, he thrust the still-wet note into Jaskier's face.

_ calm down, dolt. you're not permanently deaf. the mage gave you a powerful potion for pain. it also knocked you out. you were being incredibly difficult. more than usual, if that's possible. your hearing will be back to normal in a few hours. _

_ "HOURS!?"  _ Jaskier shrieked silently. Geralt’s catlike eyes rolled in their sockets. “And I can read lips just fine, for your information,” he added when the witcher went to write another note.

“Fine,” Geralt said. “Your leg should be healed in a week or two. The entire bone was snapped. I’m almost— no, actually, I’m not.”

“Have you been around this whole time?” the brunette asked curiously.

“Not the  _ whole  _ time, I had to eat and piss.”

Jaskier gasped and gave a devilish grin.

“So you  _ do  _ actually give half a damn!” he said triumphantly. “Ha! I  _ knew  _ you car—” he faltered.  _ ‘I  _ cared, _ Geralt. I  _ cared. _ It would be a fucking miracle if you managed to form a proper response, to tell me that no, you  _ did  _ care, that you  _ didn't  _ mean what you said.’  _

A strained moment of silence passed between the two men. Jaskier swallowed, throat rather dry.

“Well,” he said quietly, “I’ll, er, get a bit more rest in, if you don’t mind.” His eyes couldn’t meet Geralt’s. Geralt nodded and stood abruptly, displacing his chair by a few centimeters. The door closed sharply behind him, and Jaskier was alone again.

* * *

Jaskier had been somewhat quiet all evening, even long after the potion’s side effects wore off. He'd only performed a few songs, and his smile had been soft and almost tired. His bound-up leg, still paining him, had been completely ignored as he walked around normally. He didn't cringe or grit his teeth with every step. Outwardly, it was like he couldn't feel any pain. Geralt knew better. He could sense the awful physical torture the bard was undergoing, and caught the occasional flinch from a particularly powerful pulse of pain. For no clear reason, it seemed the bard was also feeling some amount of mental discomfort, on top of his physical ordeal. 

At some point, not very late by his standards, Jaskier politely stepped away from the people talking and drinking around him. Head slightly down, he walked slowly to the door, acknowledging the hellos and compliments he received along his way. Geralt watched as the slim-framed man limped out the tavern door. He stared out the grimy window beside him, watching the back of Jaskier's retreating figure. Something powerful, choking, and impossibly  _ inexorable _ stood the witcher up and guided him quietly out the door after his companion. 

Jaskier wandered quite far up the road, to the point near the forest where it ran parallel to the river. Geralt watched him clamber down the bank and pick his way along the shore until he found a patch of sunbaked moss. He leaned back against a large rock and lay gazing up at the dreamlike haze of light above them. After a solid ten minutes of this, Jaskier's eyes slid shut and he sighed wearily. He didn't fall asleep, though, which puzzled Geralt. The bard was clearly exhausted in every way. 

Geralt moved to a small boulder two or three meters behind and to the left of Jaskier's. 

"You startled me," Jaskier said softly after several quiet minutes.

"I didn't intend to," Geralt replied, voice low to match Jaskier's. There was a painfully quiet sigh from behind the other rock.

"I know."

Another few wordless minutes passed, pain pulsing dully in Jaskier's leg and heart. He could  _ sense  _ the witcher behind him, could almost feel the next words coming before they were spoken aloud.

"What's wrong, Jaskier?"

Jaskier felt his eyes burning hot out of nowhere, and he let them. 

"Why do you care?" he whispered. Scalding tears tracked over his temples and into his hair.

"Because I lubmyoo," the witcher said, strangling the last few involuntary words beyond recognition. 

Jaskier hummed in response, trying not to care.  _ Gods  _ he cared. The uncomfortable sensation of tears in his hair only served to embellish the whole experience.

"It seems so—" he cleared his throat of the lump that was rising in it. "—so strange to me that  _ this  _ is where we land after a year and a half. Just going on like nothing ever happened."

"Two years."

"Whatever." The bard sounded terribly bitter. "That doesn't change what happened." 

Geralt stared straight ahead into the rolling hills beyond the town, dry grass illuminated only by the celestial glow from above. He felt the buzz of suddenly acute pain, emotional and physical, from the minstrel.

"I was afraid to go after you, once I'd calmed down." The witcher swallowed. "I didn't know how you would react, and I didn't know how to express myself." His speech gradually sped up. "I knew I had done something  _ very  _ bad, I knew you were hurt, and I knew that that knowledge hurt me. But I didn't know what had really just  _ happened.  _ I didn't know how to get onto your level of awareness. I didn't know how to process any of it. I  _ don't  _ know how to process any of it. I want to do whatever will get rid of what I said—"

"You don't understand any of what you're saying, Geralt."

Geralt, for his part, knew this full well. He couldn't hear much over the ringing in his ears, though. Jaskier had gotten to his feet, but he still faced out to the water.

"Geralt, shut up." His voice was ruptured. "You don't need to fucking justify yourself. It doesn't change anything!"

Geralt felt dizzy, completely unable to control himself. Words rushed from his throat like a raging waterfall. 

"You don't need to  _ tell  _ me  _ anything!"  _ the bard seethed, dragging in a breath of the cold riverside air.

Geralt wasn't even aware of what he was saying anymore. 

"I DON'T NEED TO HEAR YOUR EXCUSES!" A scream finally tore itself from Jaskier's throat, his fists clenched to the point of pain, trying desperately to cut through the witcher's torrent of speech.

Geralt... Wasn't aware of much of  _ anything,  _ really. 

"Geralt, if you... Oh holy mother of—"

As he felt himself blacking out, some part of Geralt's brain chastised him for falling prey to his weak emotions.  _ Again.  _ Gods  _ damn it. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with my impression of the quality of a few scenes, but as usual my godsend of a beta reader **glythandra** just pointed out a couple of little things I could tweak and it immediately felt a million times better!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's a hell of a roller coaster!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy March!

_ “Geralt!”  _ Jaskier found himself not caring about the excruciating pain in his leg. The healing was being assisted by magic anyway; any further damage would be treatable. Whatever. It didn’t matter.

Geralt, who had just moments before been spewing words like sick, crumpled while Jaskier scrambled back up the bank to reach him. His eyes, sharp and bright like they were whenever he got worked up, had rolled back in their sockets. Jaskier panicked even more—if that was possible—when a gurgling, choking sound emanated from the witcher’s throat.

“Fuck, fuck, ah— Geralt, stay with me, come on now,” he blathered, lost and terrified. The blood starting to burble from the corners of Geralt’s mouth wasn’t helpful. “Please stop bleeding, you oaf, come on, you’re good at that, right, not bleeding? Or stopping bleeding? Gods, that’s  _ way  _ too much blood.” He looked around frantically at the empty landscape and the seemingly distant lights of Lande. No help would get there in time. He couldn't leave Geralt here. But there wasn't anything he could do.

Finally, the bard came to a decision. He stood up on his still  _ very painful  _ leg, and prepared to sprint. However, he hesitated before taking off. On impulse, he shed his doublet and tucked it in around Geralt's arms. It was too cold outside for him to just lay there.

Already feeling a chill creeping down to his bones, Jaskier turned and ran like he'd never run before, back towards Lande and its lights and its help for his Geralt. 

* * *

The ancient wooden door crashed open without even a knock beforehand. Ciri nearly fell over Yennefer’s bed as she tripped her way to the witch’s feet. 

“What is it?” Yennefer asked sharply, upright and alert.

“I don't know,” the girl gasped, “but something... Something is really,  _ really wrong. _ I can  _ feel  _ it.” 

Violet eyes flicked to a large glass jar on one of the many tables scattered about the room. Yennefer’s jaw tightened and she hopped to her feet, then strode away from the overexerted princess. Her hands moved in a short sequence of flourishes and flicks before she swept both her arms outward and apart from each other. A shimmering, rippling mass of air appeared in the middle of the room, sending the fine silk of her chemise fluttering. The witch then made as though she were pulling something towards her with great force, and a woman came tumbling out of the portal.

“Y-Yennefer!? I thought— But I have an enchantment on my—”

Yennefer stopped her sharply.

“Anica. Please, I need you here for this.”

The newly appeared woman calmed, now on her feet. She was tall, strikingly beautiful as witches tended to be, with long mousy-brown hair arranged in a simple yet very elegant pulled-back style, supported and accented by braids. Her nightdress was an unassuming tawny grey, but her otherwise modest jewelry was set with vibrant sapphires. 

A few moments passed in which Anica stood in silence, waiting expectantly for Yennefer to speak. Instead, the shorter witch suddenly burst into tears and embraced the taller.

"I'm sorry, it's been so long, and something's  _ really  _ out of place and I definitely can't handle it myself. Tissaia didn't teach me about spells of this sort. I didn't know who else to call."

"Yenna, it's alright. You've got me now, we can do it together, right?" Anica gently patted Yennefer on the back, returning her hug, and placed a light kiss onto her dark hair. "We can do it, come on."

Yennefer straightened up to dab her face dry and breathe. She regained her composure with almost unsettling alacrity. Once she had gotten herself back in a decent state, she shook her long hair out and looked back at Anica.

"I... Sorry."

"It's alright. But you were saying we need to hurry?" 

"Yes." Yennefer turned to Ciri, who at this point had recovered herself and was watching the two sorceresses. "Come here, Ciri."

Ciri approached as Yennefer explained to Anica the girl's connection to Geralt, and that Geralt had brought her to the witch's castle for training and safekeeping.

"Remember, Geralt of Rivia, the witcher who I— wipe that smirk off your face, Ani! There's nothing between us anymore."

"Okay, okay!" Anica giggled.

"He's got himself into trouble. Idiot. Ciri is sensing something big and bad."

"So you need help figuring out what's going on? Why don't you just bring him here like you did with me?"

"That's a bit of an issue," Yennefer sighed. She sat down in an ornately carved wooden chair and leaned back with her arms and legs crossed and her eyebrows knit in a frown. "We've tried. It doesn't work. The portal just fizzles and breaks down. This... Sense of Geralt's wellbeing started around two weeks ago now."

Anica had placed herself on a three-legged stool and crossed her legs. Her chin rested in her hand and her elbow on her knee. She, too, had a crease upon her brow.

Ciri spoke up again.

"I'll say it again, we could at least  _ try  _ summoning the bar—"

"No. He's a fool. An amicable and witty fool, yes, but a fool all the same. Plus, he can't shut up long enough for anyone to get anything done."

"Dandelion? The bard who travels with Geralt?"

Yennefer huffed.

"He hasn't been  _ Dandelion  _ since long before he started tagging along with Geralt. I'm not sure where you've been that you know that name. He's known as Jaskier," she said distastefully, "the troubadour recounting the ventures of the witcher he accompanies, the  _ White Wolf,  _ the great _ Geralt of Rivia." _

"...you're certain you're not bitter? Not in the  _ least?" _ Anica asked teasingly after smothering a giggle at Yennefer's scathing tone, earning herself a scowl from her friend. 

"In any case, they don't travel together anymore," Yennefer continued, completely disregarding the other's words. "The dunderhead witcher went and scared off the only thing close to a friend he had. If you don't count his horse." She shook her head. 

"He's the person Geralt cares about the most!" the Princess interjected. Yennefer shot her a sharp, silencing look, which was promptly brushed off. "And  _ no,  _ Yennefer, I will  _ not  _ drop it! Do you know how much he thinks about and mentions that man!? I don't think he even realizes it!"

Yennefer’s eyes sat swirling below furrowed brows, battling thoughts and feelings raging in violet storms within. Anica rose and moved across the room to rest a hand upon one of her silk-adorned shoulders.

"There are witches like me, who control their emotions, and witches like you, who are overcome by them. Remember, you told me Tissaia said that?"

Yennefer sighed.

"Right." 

She stood up and straightened her posture, closed her eyes, concentrated on that idiot's face, and repeated the gesture from before.

"—erALT! What the—" The bard's eyes fell on Yennefer and he bristled.  _ "You!  _ I  _ knew  _ you had something to do with it! Where did you send him?!"

Ciri marched right up to the latest arrival and glared at him.

"Where is Geralt?" she demanded, somehow towering over Jaskier despite the solid 17 or 18 centimeters the bard had on her. 

"I don't know! We were in—" Jaskier's face, which had gotten flushed from shouting, suddenly drained of all color again. "...fuck." He rounded on Yennefer. "You magicked me here in the middle of Geralt  _ dying!  _ Very nastily and rapidly!"

Yennefer dropped all pretense. When she spoke, her face and voice were serious.

"Where were you?"

"Lande. Far up the road leading northwest out of town."

The witch nodded and postured herself to create a portal. It swelled, then crackled and sparked before disintegrating. 

"Something is preventing portalling to and from Geralt's position," Anica said thoughtfully. 

"Right," Yennefer agreed, "but then how..."

Both women looked at Jaskier.

"I was running for help! For the love of Melitele, just  _ send me back so I can help him!!"  _ The man's voice was beyond distraught. 

Yennefer summoned another portal, this one leading to where Jaskier had been when she'd dragged him in, and stepped up to it. Without warning, she plunged the entirety of her right arm into the shimmering mass of magic. It immediately crackled and hissed, and the witch yelped in pain and quickly withdrew. Next, she whirled around, grabbed Jaskier by the shoulders, and all but pulled the bard to the portal. Ignoring his slightly panicky efforts at resistance, she wrenched his arm from his side and shoved it into the portal as she had done moments before. 

And... Nothing.

The two witches' eyes met, and a shared conclusion was silently confirmed.

"Jaskier, go." 

"Wait, Yenna! Not yet!" Anica hopped up and ran over to begin digging through Yennefer's stores of ingredients and prepared potions. She found a flimsy-looking sachet somewhere and crammed several potion flasks into it before thrusting it at Jaskier. "Just give him these! It  _ has _ to be in this order, this is very important: pink to keep him conscious, then dark yellow for slowing the life-threatening symptoms, then white for pain, and then orange and glowing yellow need to be administered simultaneously to protect his brain from any possible damage. Pink, white, dark yellow, orange and bright yellow together." The willowy witch leaned forward and pushed him  _ hard  _ into the portal.  _ "GO!" _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would definitely be willing to get shoved around by a bunch of scary ladies for **glythandra** 's sake. They're the best beta reader I could ask for!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eheheheh. Got 'em.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe a little short, but chapter sizes are going to start evening out soon! It's probably going to be about 1.3k-1.7k per chapter so I can work in smaller segments and focus more on quality hahah. There will be the occasional 2k+ chapter, though. Enjoy!

_ "GO!"  _

Jaskier felt ladylike hands crash rapidly into his back, and in an instant he was back in the dirt and the freezing air. He looked down at the sachet of bottles clutched against his chest, then frantically scrambled to his feet and ran back up the road, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of Geralt lying prone on the dark riverbank. 

After what felt like  _ far  _ too long, he found the witcher. Both men were breathing raggedly, but Geralt's respiration was terrifyingly more shallow than his own. Jaskier fell to his knees and emptied the bag of potions. It was only now that he realized that it was far too dark to differentiate the colors. 

Geralt was wheezing. Time was running out.

Five potions. Glowing yellow could be set aside, leaving four. As his eyes adjusted to the night once more, he was able to pick out which was the lightest color. White. He set that one down far to the left of the glowing bottle. The next lightest bot— 

Wet coughing.  _ Too much blood.  _

Fuck it. Next lightest was pink, most likely. Darker than that, he assumed, was the other yellow. Then the only one remaining had to be orange.

Hands shaking far too much, the bard uncorked the probably-pink bott— wait, was pink first, or white? The decreasing energy of Geralt's wheezing pushed Jaskier to go with his gut, and he popped the cork and forced the potion down the witcher's throat. What was this one supposed to do again? Clear his lungs, or someth— 

Feline eyes snapped open and Geralt rolled over onto his side, trying to support himself with one arm. All he seemed able to do, however, was writhe in pain and primal panic. 

"Ger-Geralt! Come on, you— drink this, it'll help—" Jaskier roughly opened the flask of white liquid and struggled to pour it into the witcher's mouth past the gnashing, inhumanly sharp teeth. By the time it was completely empty, Jaskier's hands were bleeding considerably. "Fuck, fuck, what was the next— yellow!" He snatched up the tiny bottle and all but shoved his entire hand in Geralt's mouth to administer the potion. 

The bard felt he might cry in relief when the coughing and bleeding rapidly dissipated in favor of labored breathing, and Geralt groaned and rolled onto his back again. The bard came dangerously close to forgetting the last two potions, only catching himself when the bottles clinked against the rocky bank as he shifted to get a better look at the witcher. This time, he was able to open the man's mouth more gingerly to pour the two liquids together down his throat.

Jaskier wavered and let himself slump forwards over Geralt's torso. It was all too much. He had to hear the heartbeat, the uneven breathing, the proof that the White Wolf was still alive. The Wolf didn't resist or reject the contact. Instead, both men laid motionless, letting their hearts recover from their most recent brush with the worst-case scenario. 

Geralt's hand found the bard's back and rested there. Jaskier was already close to crying again—he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately—and the contact broke him down.

"Thank you," were the first words out of the witcher's mouth. The man draped across him sighed, suddenly exhausted. 

"Don't thank me," he mumbled, tears still dripping steadily from his cheeks onto the water-smoothed stones. "I did it out of selfishness. I couldn't lose you again." He paused for a moment, resting. "And it wasn't me, really. It was Yennefer and her friend, and the youngster I assume to be your Child Surprise." A weak laugh escaped him. "You just attract scary women, it seems."

Geralt's mind was too worn out to process the fact that Jaskier had seen Yennefer and Ciri. He groaned, pushing himself up with much difficulty, and stood. Jaskier felt the pain in his leg rushing back out of nowhere and almost lost his balance. A large, calloused hand gripped his shoulder, steadying him. Its owner bent down to gather up the empty bottles and sachet before straightening up and wordlessly offering Jaskier support for the walk back to the inn.

* * *

They were both far too tired to care about the blood and mud all over them. That could wait until morning. They shed their clothes to sleep—although Jaskier had now gotten into the habit of sleeping in a tunic, and so donned the garment—and left it at that.

Geralt was near delirious now. The pain and fatigue, along with any unknown side effects of the potions, had finally caught up to him. There was one, admittedly spacious, bed in the room. They had planned to sleep Geralt on the floor and Jaskier in the bed as usual, but the witcher's addled mind had him crawling under the covers. When Jaskier looked at him blankly, he patted the empty space beside him.

“Come sleep here. Bed’s big enough." He paused before blurting out an addition; "and we'll be close. I want to sleep together.” The words fell from loose lips, making Jaskier ache with every syllable. If only the words could appear as truly coherent speech, in the waking, living hours. It did make him miserable, yes, to think about the words he’d never hear. 

But he was weak, and so let himself clamber into the uncomfortable inn bed beside the witcher. There was no resisting it. Not now, with the exhaustion weighing on them both and the  _ unbearably  _ soft and sleepy face looking right at him.

He didn't see what he'd done to deserve this. If he had thrown those ugly words so freely, walked away so easily, kept such a vice grip on his resentment and regret and allowed them to fester and poison him, then he didn't have any right to take any comfort or indulge any desires Geralt may have to offer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would
> 
> #### DIE
> 
> without my beta reader, **glythandra**


End file.
